Wednesday, October 31, 2012

We're all familiar with Avraham's famous hachnasat orchim. Yet, we
probably don't realize that the many midrashim which describe Avraham's
kindness are firmly based in the text of the Torah. After studying some
of these Midrashim, we also turn the obvious question of why God would
send angels disguised as people to Avraham to perform acts of kindness,
if they're not actually real people?

Monday, October 29, 2012

In 2004, I wrote an article for the OU’s Jewish Action
Magazine called, “In Search of Leaders,” lamenting the toll that aliyah was
taking on my attempt to build a committed Modern Orthodox Jewish community. All
assumed (incorrectly) that I was decrying aliyah; some applauded the article
while others openly defended life in Chutz L’aretz. Yet, the principle thesis
of the article – that aliyah was emptying American Modern Orthodoxy of many of
its strongest leaders – both lay and professional – remained sound.

I didn’t really know how sound until this past Shabbat,
which I spent as a representative of the Jewish Agency speaking about Aliyah
over what they called, “Shabbat Lech Lecha.”

Each year, the Jewish Agency (and other sub-groups whose
logos must legally appear in this blog post) sends representatives to cities
around the world to strengthen ties between the community and Israel and
encourage Aliyah. It just so happens that a young man who shares a bench with
me in shul spent two years in Antwerp several years ago as a Shaliach Bnei
Akiva, and he remains close with many of the community members. He also has
ties to the Jewish Agency, so when he heard about this program, he asked me
whether I’d go to Antwerp for Shabbat, mostly to speak to the kids in Bnei
Akiva. I agreed, and that’s how I ended up in Antwerp for Shabbat Lech Lecha.

Several things strike you (or at least me) immediately upon
visiting Antwerp. The Jewish community (at least the Orthodox community) is
situated in an extremely small area in the most congested downtown location of
the city; kind of like living in Manhattan – except with smaller buildings,
most only six or seven stories. This is because the community settled in very
close proximity to the Diamond Exchange, which is within walking (or biking – everyone
bikes in Antwerp) distance.

All Belgians they speak at least three languages: Flemish,
French and English. Most, if not all Jews, even Chareidim, speak Hebrew, a
fourth language, and many Jews speak Hebrew as their primary language. In fact,
in both Jewish Day schools where I spoke, I spoke to the children in Hebrew
which they understood perfectly. Their Hebrew is probably better than mine.

It’s amazing to me how communities around the world suffer
from similar problems. Like Detroit, which had a smaller, more Orthodox
Religious Zionist day school (Akiva) and a wealthier, less religious, better
attended high school (the Jewish Academy), Antwerp had two schools: Yavneh (150
students across all grades) and Tachkemoni (600-700 students). While the bulk
of Tachkemoni’s students are not religious, Yavneh is squarely Religious
Zionist, with separate boys and girls schools (in the same building, separated
by the Rosh Yeshiva’s office). That’s right: 150 total students; separate boys’
and girls’ studies beginning in seventh grade. The high school classes that I
saw numbered in the small single digits. If you’re wondering how they possibly
can afford to keep the school afloat, in Belgium private schools receive money
from the state. That probably helps quite a bit.

Here’s the most surprising aspect of Yavneh by far: one
hundred percent of its graduates make Aliyah. That’s right: all of them. I
wasn’t there to convince them to make Aliyah; they’re all going to do that
anyway, something they openly admitted. Rather, I was there to strengthen their
sense of Jewish identity, and to offer them words of encouragement and chizzuk,
a mission I feel that I accomplished. Their parents actively encourage them to
go learn in Yeshiva in Israel and then either join the army or study in
university in Israel and then make aliyah. Not one family that I met did not
have at least one child, if not more, who already lives in Israel.

This slow migration is clearly having a devastating effect
on the Religious Zionist Community of Antwerp. While the Chareidi chadarim and
yeshivot continue to grow, the one true RZ shul, Mizrachi, boasts a regular
Shabbat minyan of approximately fifty to sixty men. (I couldn’t see the women’s
section), a number which, I was told by more than one person, used to be more
than double that. While most children daven at B’nei Akiva (the Snif is
actually a huge building complex), the average age at shul could not have been
less than fifty. Simply put, the community is aging, and there are no young
people who are moving in to pick up the slack. The entire experience was very
surreal. One mother I spoke to talked proudly of her children leaving Antwerp,
never to return permanently, telling me, “There’s nothing for them here.”

This fact was most striking during the dinner the Shlichim
coordinated for college-age students (and those working as well). We put out
the word on Facebook, and while a couple (literally two) didn’t join us, there
were seven young people at the Shabbat table. That’s it. The rest are long gone.

While the Jewish Agency (in Israel) doesn’t play an outwardly
prominent role in Jewish life in Antwerp, the role it plays behind the scenes
is crucial. Many of the Judaic Studies teachers are or were Shelichim, sent
from Israel for a limited period of time. The Rosh Yeshiva (Rav Herschkovitz)
who also serves as the rabbi of the Yavneh shul is serving his second year of
Shlichut. Bnei Akiva is coordinated by Shlichim – and the Bnei Akiva clearly
plays a critical communal role; many kids daven at the Snif every Shabbat, and
they all attend Snif on Shabbat afternoon, where the high school kids
coordinate programming for the younger children. Without the Sochnut, Antwerp’s
RZ community would have long ago turned to more Chareidi-oriented educators and
leaders, ultimately changing the very nature of their own community.

Clearly Antwerp is a unique, unusual community. I’ve
traveled to schools across North America and cannot think of a school where you
could speak Hebrew to the entire student body and they would not only
understand, but converse with you in Hebrew as well. (It made the American
notion of Ivrit B’ivrit seem pathetic.) As I spoke with the kids about Jewish
identity and how Americans often struggle with a dual sense of fidelity to
America and Judaism and the possible conflict between the two (as in, are you
an American Jew or a Jewish American), while the Belgian kids found the topic
fascinating they simply couldn’t relate. They have no sense of pride in being
citizens of Belgium. (They claim that most Belgians don’t either) It seemed
clear to me that this lack of pride in being Belgian (Belsh?) had a great deal
to do with their willingness to leave their country for Israel. After all, if
you don’t identify with where you live, why stay?

I wonder how long the community will be able to sustain
itself, keeping the school open and the Bnei Akiva active. At what point are
there just not enough kids? At what point does it no longer make sense to run
an entire school? Antwerp used to be flush with profits from the diamond
industry, but numerous people made it clear that the good old days are long
gone, and that many of the community’s wealthiest, most influential members had
left, taking their assets with them to…you guessed it: Israel.

Commenting on this phenomenon, most of the Israelis I spoke
with had a single response: “Baruch Hashem.” Indeed, who can complain about the
fact that a community’s children are slowly but surely settling in the Jewish
State. After all, it’s where they belong.

But I wonder about an Orthodox community without a Modern
Orthodox element. Are we truly unnecessary to the greater frum community and
they’ll do fine without us, or do we play a larger communal role that will be
missed when there’s no significant RZ community, shul or school to speak of? I
doubt that anyone in the Chareidi community will admit it, but I wonder how
Orthodoxy in Antwerp will change when the last person at the Mizrachi Shul
turns out the lights.

I was sent to Antwerp, Belgium this Shabbat, representing
the Jewish Agency for what they called Shabbat Aliyah. Apparently, they send
representatives out to communities around the world on Shabbat Lech Lecha
(seems to be an appropriate parshah) to try and encourage aliyah and a
connection to Israel. (I'm not sure that they did such a great job advertising the program. Just google "shabbat aliyah bnei akiva")

I wonder how much a person can do in a single Shabbat.
Probably not much. But if you’re part of a larger effort; if you’re one gear in
a much larger machine – then every little bit really does help.

I still find myself impressed that the State of Israel sent
me to another country to encourage Jews to connect to the country. There’s no
other country in the world that actively seeks out people to come emigrate; no
country in the world that cares enough for its people – and Jews are Israel’s
people – that it spends fantastic sums to try and encourage its people to
return home.

At the airport, I a “chutz-la’aretz” experience
which I shared with the students who I spoke with over the weekend. As soon as
I got into the security line in Ben Gurion, I found myself standing next to a
group of travelers – probably about fifteen or twenty men and women (and a few
teens), mostly between the ages of forty and sixty. Yet, the group was striking
for their sheer size. They were all quite tall; the men must have all been
six-three or above; the women were all at least as tall as me. They were
imposing, just standing there, in the line next to mine, at the Ben Gurion
Airport security line. Listening for a few moments, it became clear that they
were speaking German, and a thought flash of recognition – or maybe
identification in some small way – raced through my mind.

It was a long wait on line. And as we stood there, we began
to chat, as people on line often do. They were indeed German, and wonderful
people, on their way home from a week-long vacation. It just so happened that
there was a frum woman standing behind me with a baby in a stroller, and after
she asked me about my upcoming trip, she turned to the woman behind me, assuming
that we were travelling together and assumed, aloud, that she too would be
traveling with me.

“Oh no,” she said, “we’re not from the same family.” But
then she added, in a slightly lower tone that I clearly heard but doubt the
woman from Germany caught, “At least not in directly. But we are in the larger
sense.”

Hearing her comment, I turned to and wondered, “Were you
thinking what I was thinking?”

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

After many, many years of trying, Sarai finally comes to the conclusion that she cannot bear children for her husband. So, in a gracious and personally difficult gesture, she approaches Avram and suggests that he take her maidservant, Hagar, as a wife, and that perhaps she would be able to bear a child for him. Avram agrees, and lo and behold, Hagar conceives a child. As time progresses, Hagar realizes her new importance in the household and begins to assert her independence. The Torah tells us, ותקל גבירתה בעיניה – “her mistress went down in her esteem.” Instead of the respect and reverence that a maidservant owes her mistress, Hagar begins to treat Sarai as an equal – in effect disrespecting her. Sarai realizes that Hagar is getting her cues from Avram, and that he could stop it if he wanted to. Yet, he does nothing – maybe out of indifference, but probably out of ignorance. Yet, Sarai, whether justified or not, blames her husband for her problems.
How does she deal with it? How does she express her feelings to Avram? Does she burn his soup? Does she pout and slam doors, hoping that he’ll get the message? She does none of the above. Instead, her actions give us an important lesson about fighting – not only in a family, but in general.
Sarai takes the bull by the horns, and immediately approaches her husband. Angry about the favoritism that Hagar gets Sarai says: חמסי עליך – I’m angry with you! ישפט ה' ביני ובינך – “God should judge between you and me.” Simple and to the point, Sarai lets her husband know, in no uncertain terms, how she feels about what’s happening to her. In doing so, Sarai teaches us three important lessons about how to argue:
The first lesson about fighting is the need for communication. Sarai doesn’t pull any punches. She doesn’t mope around the house slamming doors, and she doesn’t hide from her husband and shy away from a confrontation. Instead she comes out and says it: חמסי עליך – “I’m angry with you. How could you do this? How can you treat me this way?” In addition, Sarai prevents her emotions from entering into the argument. She doesn’t blow up at her husband, and she doesn’t fly off the handle. While she does argue, she argues with a coolness that allows her husband to see her perspective and appreciate her point of view.
In addition to communicating, Sarai focuses solely on the issue at hand and on what she’s really upset about. She doesn’t bring in all of the things that have been bothering her about how he doesn’t cover the toothpaste, or how he leaves the toilet seat up. All of the peripheral things that we get caught up in are only details. They don’t relate to the root of the problem. Why is it that the toothpaste cap doesn’t bother us when things are going well? Because we overlook the details when we can see the greater picture. It might bother us a little, but it’s not such a big deal that we blow up about it. If we can deal with it when things are good, then we must also deal with it when we’re in an argument as well – and not bring in other issues into a fight. Stay on the subject, and focus only on that subject, and the argument will be a productive one.
Finally, even in argument, Sarai focuses not on what divides them, but instead on what brings keeps their marriage together. Looking at the language Sarai uses in expressing herself, she says, ישפוט ה' ביני ובינך – “God should judge between you and me.” Even in argument, even when they don’t get along, Sarai and Avram remain committed to common goals and a common set of values. Even though they might be arguing, they never remove God from the picture.
There’s a very famous D’var Torah that people love to use at weddings, and it’s very apropos to this topic. We know that the Hebrew word for man is איש. The Hebrew word for woman is אשה. We know that one of the names of God is י-ה. When you take God and godliness away from a marriage, in a sense you remove the name of God – the י"ה from them. When you remove those two letters from the איש and the אשה, what you’re left with is א-ש – fire. So we bless the חתן and the כלה – the groom and the bride – in the following way: we pray that they remain a couple who keeps God in their home and their household, because without God, all their left with is fire – strife and disagreement.
But are we blessing the couple that they should never fight? Is it really realistic that they never have arguments and disagreements? Of course not. Perhaps though, this D’var Torah is not so much teaching how to get along, but how not to get along. You see, when Sarai comes to Avram with a disagreement, she does it from a religious perspective. She never forgets that they have a common mission that forever bonds them together. Therefore, especially when they disagree, they must forever remain mindful of that mission and of that bond. So she says to her husband, ישפוט ה' ביני וביניך – “God will judge between us.” Of course we’re working together, and of course we need each other – but we need to work on how to achieve that common goal. When you argue from that perspective, an argument can be resolved, and peace will ensue. But, when we take the godliness out of the equation – when we fight not from a common perspective, then you really have a war – then you’re left with אש – with fire.
There are times in life when we need to argue – we have legitimate issues that have to be discussed and resolved. This happens in the home, it happens in a shul, and it happens in business. But when we fight, Sarai, through her example reminds us that instead of pouting, and hoping that the other person gets the picture, we must always communicate, never letting our emotions take control of us. When we send “messages,” the other side never really gets the message, and we just get more upset, assuming that they know we’re upset and that they don’t care. Arguing requires clear and controlled communication.
In addition, always stay on the subject. It’s so easy to get into the habit of saying, “You always act this way! You never do this!” Don’t do it! Remaining focused on the point of contention will bring about a resolution. Bringing up every topic under the sun only makes the problem worse, and then the conflict becomes not one of issues, but of personalities.
Finally, especially when arguing, never forget the common goals that bind you together. If you disagree with someone about a family decision, never have the attitude that the other person doesn’t have the family’s best interest at heart. It’s those common goals that will bring about a resolution, and allow you to become even closer after the fight than you were before.

Each and every year following Simchat Torah, the challenging and thorny issues related to women and public prayer once again surface in the public Orthodox consciousness. This month, articles by Rabbi Michael Broyde, a heartfelt (but in my view somewhat misguided) piece by Rabbi Zev Farber as well as a somewhat simplistic piece by his daughter raised the issue of public kriat Hatorah groups within the Orthodox community, and by extension, the larger issue of women's roles within Orthodoxy. Rabbi Farber's piece also generated responses from Rabbi Joshua Maroof and R. Raphael Davidovich. Happy reading.
Let me go back a bit.
Before the weekly parshah shiur began last Tuesday, a member of the shiur mentioned the issue of Women's Kriat Hatorah and said, "Clearly this is where the Modern Orthodox community is going. It will be a normative practice in twenty years, don't you think?"
I didn't think so, and told her so.
"But," she argued, "How are we accomodating the young girls who are looking for an outlet within the Orthodox community? Are we just going to push them away? Because if they don't find what they're looking for within Orthodoxy, they're going to look elsewhere." She later sent me the link to Eden Farber's piece.
I'm not so sure. The problem is, the more we try and accommodate, the more the gulf between Orthodoxy and modern society and its social mores grow increasingly pronounced. Eden herself articulated the problem: They give her the prayer for the State of Israel to recite; they ask her to deliver a dvar Torah. But that's not enough for her. She wants to layn and lead the davening.
On one hand, we cannot ignore the desires of these women; they come from a sense of injustice, and a bewilderment at the gulf between the secular world in which they live and the religious world they inhabit. And, we cannot simply follow a Chareidi perspective and tell them to shut themselves off from that world; that's not my worldview, nor is it a realitstic approach.
But this issue, like so many others, demands a sensitive and careful balance. I absolutely reject Rabbi Farber's demand for a "paradigm shift" away from a paradigm firmly based in halachic precedent. At the same time, we should not marginalize or demonize women who do participate in prayer groups or layn before women. It's not an activity that I'd encourage, but certainly not something I'd condemn either.
Why wouldn't I encourage it? After all, if it's not prohibited, and layning gives women a sense of spiritual fulfillment, why not encourage them to read from the Torah before a group of women? My answer, is to look at the facts on the ground.
While it's never fair to apply a generalization to any specific individual, generalizations are often quite accurate.

From where I sit, I don't see the women who participate in these rituals as individuals who submit to halachah and consider halachah the primary driving force in their lives. (Blu Greenberg did say it best.) This expresses itself not only in the way that they dress, but in the places that they eat, and in general in their overall level of frumkeit. (If you're reading this getting increasingly angry, sorry, it's my blog.) The women who I know who do submit to halachah; who are incredibly spiritual and place a primacy on shemirat hamitzvot, by and large aren't interested in Tefillah groups and layning. (Yes, there are exceptions, I know. But remember, I'm generalizing.) I would tell a woman who wants to increase her spirituality: first come to minyan each and every day, morning and night. There's a totally empty ezrat nashim. Learn daf yomi - which tens of women do without fanfare. If you're married, follow the halachot of kissuy rosh - according to any posek you choose - just not yourself.
And then, if you're still not fulfilled, find a group of like-minded and similarly passionate women to layn with.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The Times of Israel reports about a recent Technion conference on hospital design which wondered how the design of the hospital affects patient health. The design matters a great deal in a way that many people fail to recognize: do health workers wash their hands? Shockingly, the answer turns out to be no.

The number, location, and position of hand-washing stations
directly affects the health of patients, the study said. “Several
studies of hand washing in high-acuity units with vulnerable patients
have found that as few as one in seven staff members wash their hands
between patients,” the study said. “Compliance rates in the range of 15
percent to 35% are typical; rates above 40% to 50% are the exception.”
Studies show, however, that “installing alcohol-based hand-cleaner
dispensers at bedsides usually improves adherence.”

What does this have to do with design? Health care workers, like everyone else, can be forgetful, lazy, inattentive, busy - you name it. And, if it's a pain to get to the hand-washing station and they've got a bunch of patients to attend to, they're not going to wash their hands. I originally wrote "forget to wash their hands", but if they're not washing their hands more than half the time, that's not forgetfulness; it's outright negligence.
(This also makes me wonder why someone whose relative died from a non-illness related infection in a hospital - and there are many thousands of them every year - hasn't sued the pants off the hospital for negligence. After all, we're talking about people washing their hands - or not washing their hands. One thing hospitals really understand very well is money. It's one thing if they're killing people. That's bad, and they try to do their best. But if it will seriously hurt their bottom line? You can bet they'll get on the hand-washing thing with a vengeance. Can you imagine a jury coming back with a not-guilty verdict after seeing pictures of some terrible infection and learning that it was because the nurse didn't wash her hands? I can't. Come on lawyers out there! I smell a class action lawsuit. Get on that!)

Truth be told, this is not shocking to me at all. As a rabbi, it became painfully obvious that a hospital is the absolute worst place to be sick, especially for senior citizens, who get admitted for one thing, and end of dying from another. If at all possible, insist on out-patient care. Have a visiting nurse. Get an IV brought to the house.
In fact, recent experience with very close family only reinforced this impression. Our grandmother entered the hospital following a fall (or a foot infection - I can't remember), and died several months later of a massive infection in the stomach, after enduring terrible trauma and suffering, spending the last months of her life in the hospital. Her husband, who was also terminally ill, entered hospice, and spent the last months of his life at home, with 24-hour care, in relative peace and comfort. (The NY hospice care was, I hear, amazing.) Which choice would any one of us opt for? We must begin to immediately take the long-term dangers of hospital admission into consideration when deciding whether hospitalization is really a good idea. (If you have seen it, Atul Guwande's New Yorker article on hospice is a must-read, especially for rabbis who give halachic advice about end-of-life issues.)

What if you are forced to spend time in the hospital? Can you protect yourself? Of course you can, by doing a very simple thing: Before anyone touches you (or your loved one, if the patient cannot advocate for him or herself), ask very forcefully: "I'm sorry I have to ask you this, but did you wash your hands?"
Be, for lack of a better term, meshugah about it. Ask every person, every single time, no matter how much you like your nurse or doctor. While you might feel uncomfortable about asking the same question every time, they're people too, and like us, they take shortcuts and make mistakes.
And what's a little emotional discomfort when your life may very well depend on your asking?

Sunday, October 14, 2012

So, it's been about a week now, and I'm still doing the daf. Some observations:
1. Last week might not have been the best week to start, as the gemara itself was quite complicated, and I had events out of the house three nights in a row. On the first night, I found myself at 11:30pm having not finished the daf and I realized then and there that I was at my first moment of truth: finish the daf now (and don't push it off), or it wasn't happening. I finished the daf. This happened a couple of times, and trying to cover a piece of Gemara late at night is no picnic.
2. It became quite clear early on that unless I put this learning into some sort of framework, I'd never keep up. Simply "finding time during the day" wasn't going to work. Also, right now I'm not interested in attending a shiur (which is extremely passive), so I'm trying to at least learn the daf on my own. Thusfar, I've settled into a routine where I wake up a half-hour early and learn at home in the quiet. It's nice, and I can get through most of the daf in that time. We'll see how this plays out over time.
2b. I'm trying not to do the daf during davening or chazarat hashatz. Not simple.
3. Since I am learning on my own in a limited amount of time, there's really no time to sit on a difficult piece and crack my head trying to figure out the gemara as I might normally do. Also, there's no time to look up every word I dont' know in a Jastro (which I used to do). I need some help. A friend showed me his Talmudo B'yado, which is a paperback book that the Meorot Hadaf Hayomi (Here's a link to their website, but it's terrible. Just call them in Israel - 1-700-500-151) puts out and is a mini-Artscroll to help you get through the daf. You subscribe for 18 shekel a month, and they send you each new volume before you need it. I have yet to get the first volume, but I'm signed up.
4. On day 2, a friend (and blog reader) saw me and asked me how it was going, and I complained that I was on my way to a wedding and didn't know how I'd ever finish the day's (difficult) daf. He said, "No problem. You can just borrow my mini-daf booklet." (put out by a different organization), which I did. When the dancing went on a tad too long for me and the young people laughed us older folk out of the circle, I went outside with the small gemara and finished the daf.
I immediately felt the power of being "in the system", in that you're really not alone; many other people are doing the program with you, are willing to help and share with you, and even discuss issues that come up on the daf. It's a nice feeling.
5. Looking for a shiur that supplements the daf (and doesn't cover the daf itself) Rabbi Johnny Solomon (a recent Oleh to YB) suggested that I check out Rabbi Chaim Eisentein's "Halachah from the Daily Daf", which I will do and report back. If you know of any other similar shiurim (that are short, to the point, easy to follow and don't cover the text of the daf itself), please share in the comments.

After looking at the dispute between Rashi and Ramban about the reason
for the Torah relating the story of Bereishit, we then turn to
Vayechulu, and examine some of the challenges presented by this very
familiar text.

This shiur studies the classic text of Agadeta found in Gemara Brachot, focusing as well on the commentaries of Ein Ya'akov of Rabbi Ya'akov ibn Habib and Ein Ayah from Rav Kook.

The Gemara makes a seemingly shocking statement about the importance of
Tehillim 145 - the chapter we know as Ashrei, which leads to the obvious
question: why is this chapter so important? And why did David Hamelech
leave out the "nun"?

Monday, October 8, 2012

Imagine a school in which, after graduation, most if not all
graduates never, ever returned to the mode of study that they had
engaged in during their entire education. What would call such a school
(other than college)? Most, I daresay, would call such a school a
failure.
What then, can we say about a yeshiva system in which all
students spend a majority of their study time studying Gemara b'iyyun
(i.e. in intensive depth, with a strong if not exclusive focus on
theoretical study, with an almost allergic avoidance of any practical
ramifications to that study), but, once they leave yeshiva, never study
Gemara b'iyyun ever again? Would that not indicate that our yeshiva
system is failing us?

During a recent Gemara shiur that I give here in Yad Binyamin, I
mentioned a thought that Rav Tzuriel (the former mashgiach in Sha'alvim)
once said that stuck with me. He said that he felt that instead of
putting the commentary of the Ba'alei Tosfot on the side of the page of
the Gemara and the commentary of Rosh in the back of the book, they
should have switched the two and put the Rosh on the side and the Tosfot
in the back. I'll explain.
The commentary of the Ba'alei Tosfot
generally attempts to unify Shas into a single entity, challenging our
understanding of a text by raising contradictory evidence from different texts from across the breadth of Shas. Using this methodology, Tosfot will arrive at a new,
different understanding of the Gemara based on a resolution that allows
the two seemingly "contradictory" texts to coexist. It's critically
important and intellectually exciting. But it's also often quite
theoretical, and many times the commentary of Tosfot does not affect that
halachic outcome of the sugya.
Rosh, on the other hand, is
essentially a halachic summary of the Sugya at hand; similar in content
to the gloss of the Rif, but far more expansive. Moreover, due to his
unique place in intellectual Jewish history, having been raised in
Germany (Ashkenaz) but having moved to to Spain to escape persecution,
his commentary forms a critical crossroad between halachic and
intellectual worlds, and represents one of the first rabbinic texts
which melded the worldviews of Ashekanaz and Sepharad. (For you
intellectual historians out there, I know that I'm painting with a very,
very broad brush, but I'm doing it to make a point. Please don't hold
me to every detail. The basic gist is accurate.) Now, imagine that
instead of the theoretical studies of Tosfot on each page of the gemara,
we first confronted the halachic, practical commentary of the Rosh. The
manner in which we study Gemara today would be fundamentally different
than we learn today. It's impossible to measure, but to what degree is the theoretical learning that's standard in every serious yeshiva partly due to the placement of the Tosfot on the Daf, as opposed to at the back of the book?
The most ironic aspect of Rav Tzuriel's
suggestion is that this isn't a decision that was made by a group of
rabbanim or educational leaders after careful consideration and study.
Rather, it was a decision that was made by a printer, who for reasons I
don't know decided to put Tosfot in the front, and Rosh in the back, and
forever altered the way Gemara would be learned.

My weekly shiur in Gemara is a shiur that learns Gemara minimally "b'iyyun" (in depth). We don't cover a specific amount of material during each shiur. Rather , we study the Gemara and discuss the issues that arise from the text, and look at some basic Rishonim until we've exhausted the issue, whether it takes one shiur, or three. Only then do we move on. We began studying Brachot four years ago, and have since moved on to Beitzah. During the four years of the shiur, attendance has been relatively stable - between six and eight participants. One dropped out recently, two more joined. It's a nice group which I enjoy and appreciate very much, and I don't think that it would be a better shiur if it was much bigger. But, in my shul (and the broader community, as far as I can tell), I give one of perhaps two regular in depth gemara shiurim in our community.At the same time, since we began studying four years ago, while our shiur has remained stable, I have watched dozens, if not hundreds of men join the daf yomi. Shiurim have sprung up at all hours of the day. You can learn the daf here beginning at 5:20am, or at 6:00am or at 7:15am or even at 8:00am, in Hebrew or English. It's a juggernaut; a runaway train that cannot be stopped (nor do I think it should.) And yet, I wonder: many, if not most of the community here in Yad Binyamin spent years in yeshiva, whether in Hesder or in chutz la'aretz, studying Gemara "b'iyyun." And now, later on in life, when they voluntarily choose what type of learning to engage in, they're not asking for iyyun. They never asked for such a shiur, and that's why it doesn't exist. What they want now, and attend religiously, is the Daf Yomi shiur. So I have to wonder: Did they ever want to learn iyyun? Were the hundreds if not thousands of hours spent studying b'iyyun really worthwhile, if people are voting with their feet (and their Artscrolls) in such overwhelming numbers?

And yet, I think that the most appealing aspect of the Daf isn't the goal of finishing Shas, and it's certainly not that most people who learn the Daf hope to remember most of what they've learned. Rather, it's the kvi'ut (regularity) - the security of knowing that the system forces us to learn a set amount, each and every day. You have to keep up, because everyone else is, and even if it's not in depth; even if you don't fully understand every issue, it's time invested in Talmud Torah, which is time well spent.

For years I've avoided learning Daf Yomi for reasons I consider legitimate. If you're reading this blog you probably know what they are without my needing to hash them out again. And yet, I've always done so from the outside, while people who "do the Daf" seem to like it quite a lot. So the time has come to "bite the bullet" and give the learning a shot. After all, I doubt I'll get through much of Shas at the pace we're learning once a week.
The real challenge will be to keep up with the Daf without sacrificing my other learning I'm already doing: preparing for the shiurim that I already give; learning mishnah yomit with my son, maybe even putting down a Torah thought as I do here every so often. I truly hope that I can keep up without feeling overwhelmed. So I figure that since the cycle just started Shabbat, and I've never learned through Masechet Shabbat (which is hard to really believe, since I'm an ordained rabbi. How is it that you can get semichah without having finished Masechet Shabbat?!) I'm going to try and do the daf at least until the end of the masechta, and then reevaluate. After I've done if for a good few months, I'll have a better sense of whether I feel I really learned, and whether the time was well spent.
I'll keep you posted.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Many of us are familiar with some of the different underlying understandings for the four species that we take over Sukkot. One associates the species with different types of Jews: Aravot (No smell or taste) represent the Jews without Torah or mitzvot; Hadasim (smell and no taste) are the Jews with Torah and no mitzvot; Lulav (taste and no smell) are those with mitzvot but no Torah, and finally the etrog (smell and taste) represents those Jews with both – we hold these together to represent the idea that the totality of the Jewish people is incomplete without all Jews, of all types. Another interpretation likens the four species to the parts of the body (aravot = lips; hadasim = eyes; lulav = back/spine; etrog = heart) and the notion that the taking of these species encourages us to devote each part of our body to the service of God.I’d like to suggest an additional interpretation, in light of how the Talmud identifies the etrog itself.The Torah never mentions the word “etrog”. Rather, in the Torah we are commanded to take, among other species, a פרי עץ הדר – literally, a “beautiful fruit.” The only problem is, which fruit it is the beautiful one we are commanded to take on Sukkot? In reality, the Sages conveyed that the fruit’s identity was transmitted orally from God to Moses (and on down to us), but the phrase that appears in the Torah does give some clues that are relayed in the Gemara, which offers two hints. The Gemara (Sukkah 35a) says:

The Rabbi taught: [what is the meaning of the phrase] the fruit of a beautiful tree? This refers to a tree which has a bark with the same taste as its fruit – one would say that this is an etrog…Rabbi Abahu said, Do not read the word as hadar, rather, it refers to something that lives (hadar) on the tree throughout the year.

When we examine each of these opinions, we can find a common thread between them that can offer us an insight into all of the four species. According to each position, the beauty of the etrog lies in its consistency and constancy. According to the first opinion, the most beautiful free emanates from a tree that is so complete that the tree itself tastes like the fruit and visa versa. The tree and its fruit are identical. (It’s interesting to note that some Midrashim suggest that this characteristic applied to all the fruit in the Garden of Eden.) The second opinion refers to a different form of constancy: the etrog tree is unique in that it grows fruit year round, and not during a specific season.According to both postions, the uniqueness of the etrog – and the hiddur – beauty of the fruit, lies in its completeness, wholeness and integrity. I believe that this meaning also lies in the other species as well.Aravot: following the lead of the other interpretations, and the fact that there are almost no halachic requirements for aravot (the branch can be dried out, wilting, you name it…) I call the aravah the species of “just showing up.” There’s something to be said for being “in the game” as it were, even if a person cannot claim a sense of integrity and completion. Being there, as they say, is sometimes half the battle.Lulav: The critical qualities that we look for in a lulav are that it should be (1) whole, and not split at the top, even a little bit, and (2) as straight as possible. Are not these other terms interchangeable with integrity and completeness? Moreover, we often refer to a person with integrity as one who is yashar – straight. What you see is what you get. Hadasim: The sign of a kosher hadas is its uniformity; it should have knots of three leaves consistently from the top all the way down, completely covering the branch itself. Here again we find yet another reference to integrity, completion and wholeness. The hadas which is cut off at the top or missing leaves is lacking.Etrog: In addition to the symbols mentioned in the Gemara above, the etrog itself represents the species most closely associated with beauty, or hiddur. What makes an etrog less beautiful and desirable? While beauty is, of course subjective, halachah lists different types of blemishes that detract from the beauty of the etrog. What though, is a blemish, if not the absence of the fruit itself? If this is true (which I think it is), then the most beautiful etrog is the most “etrogy” etrog – the fruit that is only fruit, and nothing else; in other words, the most complete fruit.This, I believe, is a critical message of the four species. As we try to climb the ladder to spirituality, the greatest struggle we may face is the struggle to merge what we should and can be, with who and what we are; to become our most whole, complete, and integral selves. Too often throughout the year, we stumble in that we lose our sense of integrity and wholeness; we are not who we know we must be. We wear two faces – we are split, disconnected from our true selves.Spiritual growth then is about climbing the ladder of the four species, from the aravot – just being in the game – to the integrity and straight yashrut of the lulav, to the wholeness of the hadasim, and finally, to try our very best to reach a level of hiddur – of the beauty of the etrog.The Gemara itself notes that the ideal beauty of the etrog emanates from the fact that the tree and its fruit share the identical taste. Is that not the wish of every parent? That our children – our fruit – share our taste – our love for God and our passion for Jewish life?The greater we ourselves emanate the etrog in our own lives, the better the chance that we will merit this great blessing, that our fruit will share our taste as well.

While I've known about this program for years, the Forward recently ran a scathing expose (and a pretty one-sided one, at that) about the Michigan Jewish Institute, a Chabad run "college" from Michigan whose students rarely go on to four-year schools, and more often than not just use the school as a funnel for Pell Grants in order to allow them to attend seminary or yeshiva in Israel.
From what I know at this point, the program is perfectly legal. MJI is accredited by an accepted agency, and they accept transfer credits that can be used towards a degree. Also, MJI isn't the first educational institution with a very low success rate whose students get Federal money.
But it also stinks. For its troubles, MJI takes a hefty percentage of the Pell Grant money (as tuition for "courses" taken overseas - i.e. Israel), leaving it with a tidy profit. And the entire enterprise smells like a clever way to let yeshiva kids get government money for Torah learning while enriching Chabad of Michigan in the process. Moreover, I believe that the program itself only reinforces negative stereotype about Jews and Torah, and leaves the impression that when push comes to shove, the holy dollar trumps morals and ethics.
Does that then mean that MJI shouldn't have the program? After all, the program is legal. What's the difference between the Pell Grants MJI's students apply for (and receive), and the thousands of dollars that U.S. citizens receive in negative income tax here in Israel? That's legal too, (although Americans in Israel be warned: the IRS is auditing like crazy! I'm in the process, and it's no picnic.) although one can be certain that the purpose of the tax rebates were to encourage economic development in the United States, and not in Israel. When the Washington Post runs a piece about the millions of dollars that Americans in Israel receive in tax refunds, and the closet industry that has sprung up in which native Israelis travel to America to get their kids naturalized for the sole purpose of receiving the tax rebate, that too will be a big chillul Hashem, even though it's legal.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Davening over the Yamim Noraim were particularly meaningful for me, for one simple reason: I was blessed to daven between my sons (who are now both Bar Mitzvah). I cherish the quiet moments that we have together under my tallit during Bircat Kohanim. Somehow, we just share in a sense of blessing during the silence of the blessings in a close and intimate way that's not easily replicable any other time that I can think of. Of the many, many blessings inherent in living in Israel, daily birkat Kohanim (and sharing the ritual with my sons each Shabbat when they're with me) is one of the "smaller" perks that I really appreciate.
Also, the davening itself was quite powerful, with a lot of wonderful singing. This year, the rav who davens mussaf sent around a YouTube link to a wonderful niggun that appears during the repetition of the davening on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I've been humming it ever since, and now so has the family. I share it with you for your enjoyment and spirituality.

On a much, much lighter note, I've written before about Underdos, the group of young people who publish a short funny clip each week about some aspect of religious life. While the Hebrew is often way too fast for many to follow, they recently put out two videos that have no speaking at all, both of which I found not only quite funny, but very clever takes on different genres of video. Watch and enjoy! And Mo'adim L'simcha!

About Me

Welcome to my blog. I am a former pulpit rabbi and current educator living in Yad Binyamin, Israel with my wife and kids. (We made aliyah in July 2008.) If you like what you see here, you can find much more Torah and audio shiurim on our website, spolter.net.Also, feel free to leave a comment or a question. You can contact me by emailing me at rspolter at gmail dot com.